The Hostage Bride (17 page)

“That would have been generous of you.” Bick smiled, but Tamara recognized that skeptical gleam in his eyes. “But we wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on your party. Besides, my wife and I are enjoying one of our rare evenings alone. For that reason alone, I probably would have refused your invitation. I don’t believe you have met my wife.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” The man turned and smiled at her, but Tamara had the feeling she was being examined under a microscope.

“Tamara, this is Frank Shavert. He is with the legal staff. You know his uncle, Gil Shavert, one of our directors.”

“Of course,” she nodded. “How do you do, Mr. Shavert.”

“May I present my wife, Tamara Rutledge,” Bick finished.

“I have heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Rutledge, but no one has managed to convey how very beautiful you are.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

“You are very kind.” For some reason she wasn’t flattered by the compliment.

“I understand you are flying to Palm Springs, Bick.”

“Yes, on Monday,” he admitted.

“I imagine sunny California will be a welcome change from chilly Kansas City.”

“No doubt it will.”

“I won’t keep you from your meal. You’re welcome to join us for coffee when you’re finished,” the man invited politely.

“I think not,” Bick said, refusing.

Frank Shavert didn’t argue. “Have a safe flight.” With a nod to Tamara, he added, “Again, it was a pleasure meeting you at last.”

Bick watched him walk away before sitting down in his chair to finish his meal. Tamara noticed the preoccupied and thoughtful look in his expression. As if feeling her gaze, he glanced at her.

“You just met the man who is being groomed to take my place, if his uncle has his way,” he murmured dryly.

“How could he do that?”

“I have inherited my mother’s stock in the company, but by no means do I have control.” His gaze wandered in the direction of Frank Shavert’s table. “Some day I’m going to be in for a proxy fight.” At the flash of concern in her expression, a smile smoothed up the corners
of his mouth. “Don’t worry. It won’t be for a while. Frank isn’t ready yet. Besides, I don’t intend to lose the fight.”

“I can’t imagine you losing,” Tamara admitted.

His gaze ran warmly over her. “Neither can I.” This time his smile was a genuine one.

“If Gil Shavert wants you out, why is he always having you over to his house? I thought he was your friend.”

“No. But you have to be close to a person in order to stab them in the back—a case of
‘Et tu, Brute.’”

“Bick—”

“Don’t worry,” he repeated. “I’ll know about it before they make a move.”

She suddenly understood that he had to be naturally suspicious. In his own way, Bick had been taught not to trust. If he wanted to survive at the top, he had to be doubly wary of everybody’s motives. What chance did she have?

When they had finished their main course, the waiter came to clear away their plates and returned to offer them dessert. A wicked light danced in Bick’s green eyes.

“Dessert, Tamara? Don’t you have a craving for pickles and strawberries?” he asked in teasing reference to her condition.

“No,” she replied. “Nothing, thank you,” she told the waiter.

“And you, sir? Dessert? Coffee?” the waiter inquired.

“Nothing. You may bring the check,” Bick instructed.

“Very good, sir.”

When the waiter had left, Bick glanced at his watch. “I’m in favor of going home. What about you?”

“Yes,” Tamara agreed. Tonight had brought some revelations that she wanted to think over.

Tamara went to the powder room while Bick took care of the check. When she came out, he had collected her coat from the check room and was waiting for her near the exit to the elevators. He helped her into it and lifted the curtain of flaxen hair out of the inside of her furred collar.

“It’s cold outside,” he said as he turned her to fasten the top button of her coat. “I don’t want you getting chilled.”

With a complete disregard for the publicness of the restaurant, he bent to brush his mouth over hers. The feather-soft contact held a heady promise of something more satisfying to come. A breathless excitement fluttered her pulse.

“I think you have every intention of keeping me warm,” Tamara murmured, fascinated by the man who still thrilled her with his touch.

“Do you object?” His gaze probed deeply behind half-closed lashes.

“On the contrary.” Unconsciously she swayed toward him and his hands were on her shoulders to steady her and silently remind her of where they were.

Near them, a woman’s voice asked, “Did you see Mrs. Rutledge when we walked by their table, Donna? She is beautiful.”

The spreading fronds of a potted plant hid
Tamara and Bick from the view of the woman, but her voice carried plainly. The unsolicited compliment about his wife brought a smile to Bick’s face.

“She is very beautiful,” came the second woman’s response.

“They are right,” Bick whispered huskily as neither made any attempt to make their presence known. “You are very beautiful.” Tamara would have been content to bask in the reflection of the warm light shining from his eyes the rest of her life. Bick made her feel warm and beautiful and totally woman. But he was so totally male.

A man’s voice inserted itself in the discussion of Tamara by the two women. “And very beautifully pregnant she is, too.” Tamara recognized that smooth, educated voice as belonging to Frank Shavert. “That woman knows every trick in the book,” he added on a contemptuous note, and Tamara stiffened.

“What do you mean?” There was avid curiosity in the first woman’s question.

“She was nothing but a bookkeeper in a two-bit firm we absorbed,” Frank continued, and Tamara watched Bick’s lazy look narrow with cold anger. “But she knew all about balance sheets and bank statements. It’s not surprising she saw dollar signs when she met Rutledge.”

“What happened?”

Tamara was rooted to the floor, her stomach turning with a sickening rush. Bick’s hands were biting into her shoulders, but she knew he
wasn’t aware of the pressure he was exerting. A cold, ruthless fury was building in his features, turning them to granite before her eyes.

“First, she conned Bick into paying back an alleged loan this firm had made her. Then there was a quickie wedding, supposedly because of her sick mother,” Frank went on. “Obviously Rutledge got her pregnant and she forced him into marrying her. But she’s going to produce an heir, which means she’ll get her share of the Rutledge fortune, one way or another.”

Tamara saw the fury rising up to explode as Bick started to push her aside to confront the man. “Bick, no,” she protested.

His hard gaze slashed across her face. “He isn’t going to get away with insulting you like that—not in my presence.” His low voice vibrated with the implied threat of violence.

The irony of the situation pulled the corners of her mouth into a bitter smile. “Don’t be a hypocrite. There wasn’t anything he said that you haven’t said or thought about me already,” Tamara mocked. “If the truth were known, you are only angry because he’s made you sound like a fool. Now your pride is demanding satisfaction.”

“No!” Bick denied that immediately.

An overwhelming weariness swept over her. Her hand fluttered across her face to rest on the top of her stomach. “Please take me home, Bick. I’m very tired.”

It was the truth. She was utterly weary of fighting his doubts and suspicions, of struggling for every scrap of his respect and affection. She
ached all over from her many scars received in these battles.

The voices had already drifted out of their hearing. Bick wavered for a second more, then slid a hand to her elbow to escort her out of the restaurant. The silence between them lasted all the way to the house.

Once inside, Tamara didn’t waste time with polite chitchat and simply announced, “I’m going to bed.” All the strength and determination had been drained from her voice, leaving it flat and lifeless.

No objection came from Bick, but he didn’t follow her. For the first time that she could remember, Tamara hadn’t wanted him to. She undressed in a weary daze and crawled into bed.

“Here’s your lunch, Mrs. Rutledge.” The housekeeper entered the living room carrying a tray.

Tamara glanced up from the crossword puzzle in her lap and viewed the soup, sandwich, and glass of milk with disinterest. “I’m not hungry, Freyda. Thank you.” The woman ignored her statement and set the tray on the coffee table. Tamara was already moody and her temper flared at the way the housekeeper constantly ignored her wishes. “I said I wasn’t hungry. Now take it away,” she ordered curtly.

“Mr. Rutledge left instructions that I was to make certain you ate properly while he was gone,” the woman stated.

“Mr. Rutledge isn’t here. He’s in Palm Springs.” But the admonition prompted Tamara
to remove the glass of milk from the tray. “Now take it away.”

The housekeeper sniffed and picked up the tray. “I can’t be accused of not providing you nourishing food. If you don’t want to eat it, I have better things to do with my time than argue with you.”

“Precisely my opinion,” Tamara retorted.

As the housekeeper carried the tray away, she tried to turn her attention back to the crossword puzzle, but it had lost its interest. With an irritated movement, she tossed the paper on the coffee table and took a drink of the milk. It tasted like chalk and was cast aside too. She glanced at the phone, wondering if Bick would call her as he had done yesterday.

Only once had he referred to the incident in the restaurant and that was to ask her the following morning if she was still angry with him for almost creating a scene. Naturally, Tamara had denied that because she hadn’t been angry with him. Not even his lovemaking since had been able to erase the feeling of dejection that had lingered. On the surface she had tried to pretend to him that nothing had changed, but inside it had.

The doorbell rang and Tamara shifted into a position where she could maneuver herself upright. It rang again before she reached the door. When she opened the door, she recognized the short, rotund man as the attorney Bick had engaged to settle the legal side of her mother’s affairs.

“Hello, Mr. Sutton.” Tamara smiled because
his bright red cheeks and snowy hair reminded her of Santa Claus. Then she felt the invading draft of cold winter air. “Won’t you come in?” She swung the door open wider to admit him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rutledge.” He swept off his hat as he stepped into the house. “How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you. May I take your coat?” she offered. After unwrapping the scarf from around his neck, he shrugged his round frame out of the heavy topcoat and handed it to her. Tamara walked over to hang it in the foyer coat closet. “I suppose you have some more papers for me to sign.”

“It will be the last of them. I promise.”

“Shall we go into the living room?” At his nod she led the way and sat in the chair she had recently vacated, while the attorney opened his briefcase to remove a sheaf of papers.

He went over the documents with her and explained the legal jargon. Tamara tried to listen attentively, but she wasn’t really interested. She smiled and nodded as if she understood everything he said, but her thoughts were straying to other things. In a summation sheet, he showed her the itemized list of what had been derived from the sale of her mother’s house, its furnishings, and the household goods. Another sheet listed the outstanding debts to be deducted.

“And I have a cashier’s check here for you in the amount of the balance,” Mr. Sutton concluded, and reached into his briefcase to hand it to her.

It was over three thousand dollars, and Tamara knew she had missed something. “How can this be? With all the mortgages, there couldn’t have been this much equity in the house.”

“That’s true. But, as I mentioned, we found some articles packed away in the attic that were collector’s items, and one or two pieces of furniture had antique value,” he explained.

Had he said that? She didn’t remember. “I guess I didn’t expect it to add up to this much,” she murmured.

“Since your family is expanding, I’m sure you’ll find plenty of use for it.” The attorney smiled benevolently.

“Yes … yes, I will,” Tamara agreed.

“I’d better be getting back to my office,” he stated. When Tamara started to rise, he held up a detaining hand. “No, don’t get up. I can find my own way out.”

“Thank you. Oh, I put your coat in the closet,” she added. She was having trouble thinking about anything but the check in her hand.

“I’ll find it. Have a good day, Mrs. Rutledge.”

She nodded absently and never heard the front door open or close when he departed. The noise of the vacuum cleaner humming loudly from the dining room finally penetrated her thoughts. Folding the check in half, Tamara slipped it into the pocket of her maternity smock, an absent frown creasing her forehead. She was working the crossword puzzle again when the housekeeper glanced into the room.

In the middle of the afternoon, Bick called long distance from California. It was noon time
there and he had only a few minutes before he had to keep a luncheon appointment. They talked but said little.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” he offered in goodbye, hesitated, then added, “Tamara, take care of yourself.”

“I will,” she promised. “Have a safe flight.”

Such empty phrases, she thought as she hung up the phone. But that’s the way it was always going to be. As long as Bick didn’t trust her or believe her, he could never love her. Never was much too long a time.

Taking the check from her pocket, Tamara studied it again. Her first thought had been to sign it over to Bick as a partial payment for all the money he’d spent. But it was essentially an empty gesture, she realized, because she didn’t have the means to pay the rest of it.

But the check could provide her with a new start in life … for her and the baby. It wouldn’t be easy financially, because it wasn’t that much. But she knew all about budgeting, living on a shoestring, and making do with very little.

If she was going to leave him, Tamara knew, she had to do it now, while Bick was too far away to take her in his arms and change her mind. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, there was time to cash the check at the bank before it closed.